Hemingway
In a toque and white
Beard
Doing pantomimes
In the air, looking up
And smiling;
He’s gone beyond
Even the simplest
Of words …
To meaning,
On Mother’s day
Hemingway
In a toque and white
Beard
Doing pantomimes
In the air, looking up
And smiling;
He’s gone beyond
Even the simplest
Of words …
To meaning,
On Mother’s day
Faces of a Cohen
A life in The Word
A human
Condition;
Testament to
That crack in everything
That lets the light in.
#poem #poetry #micropoetry
Just a little shameless self promotion : As you may or may not know, I have been working on publishing my first poetry book and it has now hit the “e-shelves” -“Free Verse in Useless Times”
I really hope you will buy and enjoy it – the poetry in the collection been described by one reviewer as ” lovely and sometimes profound” it’s $3.99 US and if you do, please also consider leaving a review. Both would mean a lot to me. You can purchase it through iBooks, Indigo and Chapters Kobo or on Smashwords, the self-publishing site that I have used. Here are the links:
***Please feel free to pass this on to any family and any friends that you may think of that may enjoy contemporary poetry
Apple’s iBooks – https://itun.es/ca/X_5S_.l
Indigo/Chapters Kobo – https://www.chapters.indigo.ca/en-ca/books/free-verse-in-useless-times/9780995003309-item.html
Smashwords -https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/600267
Thanks for considering and again, best of the season and a very happy New Year!
Thank you for your support !
Peter
Go Last.

1/ Don’t Know Why
Don’t know why
after so
Many years,
And after collection
After collection
of haptic verse
laid down
And written in arenas
Of solitude
and midnight silence:
-A decision to make them
Public;
Except perhaps
for the encouragement
Of friends,
Except perhaps,
For a heart rending love,
Except perhaps
For that quiet
and delightful terror
Lately,
That gnaws
contently, consistently,
About my errors,
And moves
The human family
Skeletons
to
Dance.
2/ Heart
Labours during
the day
like,
so many;
And at times
On the road,
And very late at night,
Or in the early dark morning,
In certain breaths,
Come
heart full voluntary deaths
Self inflicted
By outside coming
verse;
And by the music
And sound of words;
Enough deaths
perhaps,
that
at some
unexpected,
But expected
moment,
An aortic arch
May burst
In an
appropriate
conclusion
to the
passion,
ending all illusion;
With a single arrow,
Or many arrows,
And this heart
-leaking
Will Finally
go
Last.
The lights flickering
In the distance are red
and I believe that
I’ve totally lost my head.
The city it seems
is burning red
tonight
Not sure of
just what I’ve said
from one moment
to the other.
Verse pours out like
random bread that’s
passed out
for the swollen bellies
of the famished.
See how skeletal they sit
or lie beside
their mothers,
and are easily
mistaken for the dead,
like so many
of the others all around them.
A look is in
children’s eyes,
eyes with wrinkles
deeply etched.
Mother’s are cradling
their heads.
Hunger, pain
live here raw
like free verse
doled out
by parted
empty lips
in vacant
useless times.
Women and children
gather scraps of metal
in abandoned mines
at the expense
of fragile lives,
like free verse collected
in some
long forgotten,
still,
and useless time.
And all
seems random
here
and destined
certain
not to survive.
No need for
lullabies,
no need for the contrived
lines of verse
that rhyme,
It’s just all meant
to be so simple:
Death just comes
wandering here,
meandering
on its own
picking
left and right,
whatever
may be in sight,
like free verse in
useless times.

Mundane Thoughts
Mundane thoughts
recorded
mind and eye
Insignificant
observation
statement
of the heart
Stock in trade
of dilettante or
of Hemingway
Van Gogh
Neruda
Plath
and Picasso.
Fascination
of inhabiting
another’s mind
Life effervescent
most relevant
In time
Poetry , Art the Child
There is a quiet
And exhilarating joy
In poetry or art ,
like a child
born and raised
on page or canvas
waiting to be engaged ,
appreciated ,
waiting to delight ,
to commit
and reflect the
viewer , the reader,
to occupy their mind .
Poetry , art
Is like a child
whose company
is precious
to enjoy ,
and to delight in.
It gives us joy
and a single parting
taste
of the fleeting sweetness
That is life .
From “Eyes of the Artist ” by PWChaltas
HE knew his time
WAS limited
nature had made it
That way…with
Only certain
windows
to see light of day
So he opened his
Eyes wide …composing
saying what he had to say
before a coming of
Eternal closing on final shrouding day